Walk Through Hell With You
by musicprincess1990
Summary: "By now, he was on his way to death's door, and she would never see him again. Her heart ached at the thought, but the ache lessened with the memory of the note he'd left her. 'I wasn't pretending. Thank you for everything.'" Sequel to 'My Last Night With You.'


_**STOP!**_ **Before anything else, I have another song recommendation to go along with this story: Please look up "Stand By You," by Rachel Platten. Listen or read, either way, just keep it in mind.**

 **Thank you all for the positive response to "My Last Night With You." Your reviews made me happy, and I'm delighted to share another installment with you. If you haven't already read the first story, you should. This really isn't a potential stand-alone sequel, it's a true sequel that needs part one in order to be fully understood and appreciated.**

 **All right, enough from me. Happy reading!**

* * *

Molly Hooper sat in a daze on the tube, on her way to Bart's hospital for another day of work. She had shared a beautiful, sad, unforgettable night with the man she loved—and of course, it had been his last night in London. By now, he was on his way to death's door, and she would never see him again. Her heart ached at the thought, but the ache lessened with the memory of the note he'd left her.

 _I wasn't pretending. Thank you for everything._

She didn't know what to think about that. After all, she was the one who had asked him to make her believe it was real. And damn that man, he nearly succeeded. But how could she be sure? With no way to ask him, she was afraid she would never know the truth. Then again, perhaps she didn't _want_ to. Perhaps she should just ignore her doubts, let herself believe what could be a lie, and do what she had asked of him, and pretend.

So she did. Molly allowed a fond smile, the kind one wore when recalling fondly a face from the distant past. Certainly, it was a smile she would wear for the rest of her life whenever she thought of Sherlock Holmes. The sweetest, saddest love affair, over before it really began, but worth every last moment.

The train came to her stop, and Molly squared her shoulders. She could face this, she could continue living her life. Though she doubted her ability to love anyone else—the disaster that was her brief relationship with Tom proved she couldn't—she did believe she could handle a life alone, with the memory of their maybe-not-so-pretend night together. With the knowledge that he very well may have loved her. And that knowledge, rather than breaking her down, amazingly, gave her strength.

That strength served her well as she strolled through the corridors of Bart's. She was able to greet the people she always saw, in the way she always did: cheerfully. She felt significantly better about things by the time she reached the lab, still sad, but with growing bravery.

Then she noticed the monitor in her office.

She slowed in her efforts to put on her white coat, frowning at the screen. Hadn't it been off just a moment ago? No one else could have been in there to use it, and she was positive she'd never been so careless as to leave it on overnight. The monitor remained black, but obviously _on_ , and she stepped slowly toward the office. Then the screen flickered, and an image appeared. Her hands stilled, gripping the lapels of her coat, and her stomach plummeted.

"No," she whispered, black tendrils of dread crawling through her. "No, not him… not now…"

Meanwhile, the laughing face of Jim Moriarty taunted, " _Did you miss me?_ "

Molly stood in blind panic for two more seconds, then whirled around, her eyes frantically scanning the perimeter of the lab. _Empty_. She raced to the door and yanked it closed, locking it for good measure. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough to keep that bastard out. Forcing her gaze back to the office, she swallowed at the sight of the screen, now black again. She inched closer, and found it had turned off again. Her whole body shook, and her vision clouded with frightened tears.

 _Oh, Sherlock…_

Sinking to the floor, Molly despaired yet again over the loss of the man she loved. She would be a target, this time; Moriarty would certainly know of her involvement in the Reichenbach case, and he wouldn't want to leave a loose end. She would die, and very likely soon. A spasm of terror shot through her at the thought, and she pulled her knees against her chest, hugging them tightly.

Molly didn't know how long she stayed there, on the floor of the lab, forcing her lungs to expand and relax in a semi-regular pattern. She hardly dared move, for fear he would suddenly leap out from the shadows. She gave a startled scream when her mobile rang, and after taking a few more breaths, she retrieved it with trembling hands. John's picture flashed on the screen, and she heaved a sigh of relief, quickly answering.

"John?" she breathed.

"Molly, are you okay?" the former soldier asked firmly. "Are you safe?"

She swallowed hard. "I-I'm fine."

"Where are you now?"

"Work," she replied simply.

"Okay, don't move. Mycroft is on his way, I'm sure he'll be in touch. Probably has eyes on the place already. Just stay there and wait for him to pick you up."

Molly nodded, before remembering he couldn't hear that through the phone. "I'm not going anywhere."

True to form, Mycroft called her in a matter of minutes, instructing her to get in the car outside her usual entrance, and informing her that he had negotiated a leave of absence with Mike. By that point, the shock and alarm had partially subsided, and she had no difficulty quickly gathering her things and half-running out of Bart's. A sleek, black Mercedes-Benz sat a few metres away, and she made a mad dash, flinging herself into the backseat. Mycroft didn't so much as flinch, likely having expected her hysterics, and calmly spoke to the driver, "Drive on."

"Where are we going?" Molly asked.

Mycroft gave a sardonic smile. "Where else, Doctor Hooper? Baker Street."

* * *

Molly paused at the door of 221B, not sure what awaited her inside. Was Sherlock back? Was he out trying to find Moriarty? Did he have any guesses as to how he'd managed it? Would he acknowledge last night, or would he continue pretending—this time, pretending it never happened?

With a bracing breath, she turned the knob and went inside. Mycroft had opted not to join her, probably off taking care of national security or something, so she entered alone. Normally, she felt perfectly safe at Baker Street, but nothing was safe, _or_ normal, about today. She took quiet, slow steps up the stairs, controlling each breath into near-silence. The stairs barely even creaked in protest against her weight, and she made it to the top of the stairs undetected. Once inside the flat, it was a different matter.

"Oh, Molly, thank God!"

John and a heavily pregnant Mary burst through the doorway, both enveloping her in a tight hug. She leaned into them, their embrace a balm to her frayed nerves. At the same time, her eyes examined the flat, looking for any sign of Sherlock's return, but found none. Molly bit her lip against the tears that threatened, hoping her disappointment wouldn't be too obvious. She didn't know how much John and Mary knew, and didn't know if she could keep it a secret in her current state.

"You sure you're all right?" John asked.

"I'm not hurt," she evaded the question as the Watsons pulled back to look at her.

Mary gave her arm a motherly squeeze. "I know you must be terrified."

"Yeah, I am," she agreed. "I mean… how is this possible? How can he be back?"

"Sherlock's working on that now," John said, twisting his upper body and neck to peer around the corner toward the detective's bedroom. "He's been in his room near twenty minutes now, hasn't even made a noise. Probably in his mind palace, though if you ask me, he could use a break," he added bitterly.

Mary put a hand on John's shoulder. "John, I don't think—"

"The wanker OD'd," John barreled ahead, his lips pursed in obvious anger. "And spent God knows how long in his bloody palace, so deep we thought he was already…"

Molly processed his words, and, suddenly weary, sank onto the sofa, trying desperately to sort through the many emotions rushing through her. She was furious—how could he use drugs _again?_ How could he risk it? She was ecstatic—he was back! He hadn't gone to his death after all! And she was even more terrified—what on earth was going to happen next?

Still in a daze, Molly didn't notice Mary suggesting that they give her a bit of privacy, and complaining of not having anything to eat since morning. She didn't hear John agree, and ask if she was in the mood for chips, but not before announcing he would at least try to talk to Sherlock. She was completely unaware of their departure, and of the quiet, cautious footfalls approaching from the bedroom soon after. She remained in her trance until she heard the sound of a throat being cleared.

Molly started, and her eyes alighted on the man she was helplessly in love with. His eyes were bloodshot and somewhat blank, a byproduct of the drugs. Her anger flared, and she clenched her fists around the edge of the cushion to keep from shooting to her feet and slapping him again. She looked closer, and through the drug-induced haze, she saw raw emotion. Her fury dissolved almost instantly. Bugger, she never could stay mad at him anyway, could she? Especially not now, when she saw that emotion in his eyes. It took her a moment to place it, but when she did, her throat tightened and her vision blurred.

It was _need_.

Without a second thought, Molly stood and crossed the room, winding her arms around his middle. He responded immediately, wrapping her securely in a warm embrace. His hold on her tightened, and she felt his chin rest on top of her head as he released a long breath. Slowly, his tension eased, and his hands moved to her shoulders, gently pushing her away. His crystalline eyes searched hers, then closed off in hesitation. "Molly, are you certain you're all right?"

"Don't worry about me," she shook her head. "There are more important things to—"

"No," he cut her off. "Nothing is more important than you."

His words had a dizzying effect on the pathologist, and she was grateful he still held her, for she might not otherwise have been able to remain upright. "But… Moriarty…"

"Is dead," he finished.

She frowned. "Then how is he back?"

"I have my theories, none of them concrete yet." He brushed the backs of his fingers along the length of her jaw, and she shivered involuntarily. If she didn't know better, she'd have said his eyes darkened just a bit. "But rest assured," he went on, "I'll find the perpetrator, and get rid of him, and of Moriarty, once and for all."

Despite her trembling frame, Molly's voice came out perfectly even, "I know you will."

Sherlock smiled softly, before his expression turned steely with resolve. "In the meantime, Mycroft is setting up a safe house for you."

She blinked twice. "He _what?_ "

"You'll only be there until we've caught the culprit," Sherlock explained, his hands on her shoulders again. "Shouldn't be more than a few weeks, hopefully far less than that, depending on how extensive the rebuilding of the network has been. And you'll be kept informed, of course—"

"I'm not going," she interrupted.

It was Sherlock's turn to blink in surprise, but he composed himself quickly. "Of course you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes," he insisted, "you are. It's already being taken care of. You can even bring your bloody cat along. He's here already, if you want to—"

"Sherlock, I'm not going, and you cannot make me!"

His eyes flashed, and she watched a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Molly, be reasonable."

"No, _you_ be reasonable!" she countered, stepping away from his grasp. "Do you honestly think I'm going to let myself be carted off to God knows where, while you work against the apparently resurrected criminal who almost killed you? _And_ ," she added, "let's not forget _why_ he wasn't successful, or rather, _who_ made sure he wasn't!"

The muscle twitched again. "This is different. He will have figured it out by now. He'll surely know the full extent of your involvement, which puts you in danger."

"I'm well aware of that," she spat, "but I don't care!"

"Molly—"

She shook her head. "No, I'm not going to be some bloody damsel in distress! If this is war, then I want to fight, however I can!"

" _No_ ," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Well, why the hell not?"

"Because!"

"Give me a reason!" she demanded.

"BECAUSE HE'LL KILL YOU!" Sherlock bellowed, his face turning red. Molly jumped and took a step back, eyes wide at the sudden, furious outburst. "You're going to be his first target, and he'll kill you without a even moment's hesitation!" The detective's livid expression gave way to desperation. "I can't let that happen," he rasped out. "I can't… lose you."

Molly gasped inaudibly at this admission, and she blinked at the perpetual tears in her eyes. He turned his head away, his jaw clenched as he took several deep breaths. Taking one cautious, deliberate step toward him, Molly reached out with her left hand, cupping it against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, and her own stomach filled with butterflies. She gently guided his head toward her again, lifting the other hand to rest on the other side of his face.

"Sherlock," she whispered, and his eyes met hers. She caught a rare glimpse into soul beneath the piercing, aquamarine irises, and her own doubts fled. "You _weren't_ pretending last night," she stated, never more certain of what she was saying. She looked deeper, and went on, "You've been pretending to feel _less_."

The tiniest smile lifted the corners of his lips. "Astute as ever, Doctor Hooper," he murmured.

She matched his smile for a moment, then furrowed her brow in confusion. "Why, Sherlock?"

Following a slow intake of breath, he replied, "As I said before, nothing is more important than you, and your safety. I believed that keeping you at arm's length would keep you from harm. And for a time, it worked… but you stubbornly refused to let me push you away." His tone was teasing, gentle. "You, with your irrational love for me, proving me wrong so many times. You, the unsolvable mystery." Sherlock leaned in, his forehead meeting hers, and he exhaled slowly. "Foolish woman," he added with a smile.

Molly hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She pulled away to look him in the eye again, and was the steadiest she had ever been as she spoke. "I don't care what dangers come, Sherlock. I don't care if you tell me we're going to the very gates of hell. I'll be at your side, no matter what."

His eyes searched hers again, and then he sighed, resuming his position against her forehead. "I suppose you _would_ be safest here, where I can keep an eye on you." His arms found her waist, drawing her flush against him. "At any rate, I find myself… reluctant to let you go."

She beamed up at him, arms twining around his neck. "I'm not going anywhere," she breathed against his lips, and he responded with a searing kiss. Molly basked in the euphoria of requited love, pouring her heart and soul into every kiss, every touch, every moment. Beneath her hands at his neck, she felt Sherlock's pulse hammering, betraying his own highly emotional state. She giggled as he lifted her off the ground and spun in a circle (miraculously, her feet never crashed into any furniture).

Some time later, the Watsons stepped over the threshold, both their eyes bugging out at the sight of the amorous exchange. John's jaw dropped, but before he could even make a sound, his wife clapped a hand over his lips, effectively silencing him. Her own mouth was curled into a satisfied grin, and she led her husband from the flat, silently plotting all the ways she was going to tease Sherlock about this in the future.

* * *

 **And there you have it! Thanks for reading! Don't forget to feed the review box!**


End file.
